


Creature of the Night

by Nebulad



Series: Honour, Glory, Immortality [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Gen, Origin Story, pre-dragonborn, unexpectedly fatherly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-30
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-08-18 17:40:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8170279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nebulad/pseuds/Nebulad
Summary: It was boring, being so locked up. The others didn’t like to leave, even to stand in the front yard. Thralls weren’t allowed into the tomb unless someone was making use of them, and as time passed— second by second, it seemed— Kastus found himself less and less willing to attempt conversation with his sallow companions. They were brooding and surly and tormented as he was sure proper vampires ought to be; however, Kastus had very much chosen his condition, and so he would have really been a bit of a hypocrite for joining in on their torment.So he wandered into the village and talked to Sissel.





	

“I haven’t been human in a very long time,” Kastus drawled, sitting back more comfortably in his seat. “If push comes to shove, I’d like to keep it that way.”

“No better place for you in Whiterun, then.” The old man was a friend of his— despite his frantic search to cure his vampirism, he didn’t seem to have anything against those who would happily remain so, which worked out in Kastus’ favour.

“Vampires?” he asked, doubting he’d be so lucky.

“I’ll let it be a surprise.” The man’s smile was missing teeth, but in fairness he’d probably lost them _before_ his vampirism. He was a Nord, after all, no matter how helpful he turned out to be in finding Kastus new arrangements.

It wasn’t often that his meagre way of life was threatened, but time was cyclical in the sense that no matter what he chose, eventually he was forced to move on again. He’d wandered from the thick crowds of Wayrest as a mortal man, entering and crossing through the burdenous tension of Dragonstar West and East— he’d left Hammerfell as a vampire, slipping into Cyrodiil like a thief in the night.

He always quite liked to think of himself as a thief, though he really had no interest in stealing. Possessions had a way of finding him when he needed them— whether he scavenged what he needed or built what he wanted, he’d never bothered to make a career out of being any sort of burglar or pickpocket even during his stint in the Imperial City where the guild prospered under their Grey Fox. It was eventually a perceptive group of vampire hunters— of all things, really— that drove him all the way to Vvardenfell. Kastus had planned to stop sooner than the island, but the hunters were too well organised and well liked among Cyrodiil’s guards. Paranoia forced him onto the ferry to the island.

He might’ve liked to see Morrowind before the Red Mountain made a proper ashen mess of it— as it was, the sand got in his lungs and stayed there, and he found the people a bit too rugged to prey on. There were so precious few willing to rough it out in Raven Rock and he was still avoiding major cities, so eventually he hopped ship to Windhelm. A fucking _hole_ , that was, and by that time he was properly sick of trying to blend in. He was tired, his eyes were red, and his stomach was cramping from hunger.

He marked the end of his stay in cities by killing a beggar and escaping by the skin of his ass.

After that he kept to the big wide wilderness. Animals were well in supply, same as bandits, and there were a staggering amount of other vampires out in the pastoral little fields of the Nord homeland. He didn’t want for company, though, and wandered for years before settling down in a tomb near Rorikstead. His fellow creatures of the night thought they were very clever with their hounds and their thralls, luring people down with suggestions of treasure buried beneath. Fuck, there was barely a _floor_ , but as it turned out people were fools and followed the breadcrumbs anyway.

It was boring, being so locked up. The others didn’t like to leave, even to stand in the front yard. Thralls weren’t allowed into the tomb unless someone was making use of them, and as time passed— second by second, it seemed— Kastus found himself less and less willing to attempt conversation with his sallow companions. They were brooding and surly and _tormented_ as he was sure proper vampires ought to be; however, Kastus had very much chosen his condition, and so he would have really been a bit of a hypocrite for joining in on their torment.

So he wandered into the village and talked to Sissel.

She liked him because— well, certainly not for his soothing demeanour, but perhaps simply because it was hard to dislike someone who treated you with basic kindness. He brought her toys and things off caravans that stopped in and never went out again, and she hid them all around the village so her brat of a sister or lout of a father wouldn’t find them. Sissel told him of her magic— a grave secret he swore to keep— and her frustrations, while he told her of places she’d never been. Of course, he might’ve told her of Whiterun, only _just_ visible over the hills of town and she would be amazed, let alone his home in Wayrest.

It wasn’t always travelling, of course. She wanted to learn about a great many things, most of which Kastus was pleased to find he knew. It served the egomania he’d always suspected he harboured, and frankly Sissel was a little riot. She was friendly and fearless and just the sort of child he’d been— perhaps, though, with a little less self-destruction. No need to worry about this one being tempted by the allures of an eternal night, if only to see if she could hash it in the end.

He could, of course— hash it, that is— and as that became more apparent to him, so did the fact that he was getting restless. He put it off, for Sissel, but eventually found his hunger adding to the restlessness. Fools with iron swords and tissue skin grew less and less frequent— he would have to take matters into his own hands, and sentimentality kept him from doing so in Rorikstead. Even Lemkil was no fit meal— Kastus fucking hated the man, but Eight forbid he accidentally turn him into a vampire. Some lives were meant to be cut short rather than extended into the annals of time.

“I will be gone for a while, I think,” he said thoughtfully during his last visit to the child, looking out at the horizon. The sky was brightening and he would return to the tomb, but perhaps… not stay there. Maybe he would even travel by day. He had a cloak and was just stubborn enough to risk burning to death rather than do those corpses the courtesy of saying goodbye.

Sissel was very quiet for a while. “Are you going back to High Rock?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“Not so far,” he promised. “Whiterun, perhaps. It has been a while since I’ve been in a proper town. I think I’d like to reacquaint myself.” She nodded her head very slowly, her jaw clenched so hard that she’d crush her little teeth if she kept at it. “I’ll come back for you,” he told her without thinking. It wasn’t often (or ever really) that he bound himself to a mortal. They were messy and they died and they were afraid of him. Sissel wasn’t, but she hardly knew the breadth of the situation.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to worry about me.” As children do, she failed to be very convincing though he had no doubt she was being genuine. Her family had taught her that she was an inconvenience, a burden to be taken on with no small amount of frustration and bile.

He stood up, because if he was going to start burning he’d rather not do it in front of a ten year old. “I will anyway,” he told her, patting her head. “And I’ll be back. You and I will live in the city, have a garden— I’ll teach you what magic _I_ know.” Not vampirism, of course, but he’d picked up illusion and alteration somewhere along the way and always found them to be more useful than the destruction she wanted to learn. You could stand before a shield and spit flame all you liked, but it wouldn’t save you from the sword. Simply not being there, however, would do wonders.

That had led him sort of indirectly to his old friend’s door, a Nord named Amund who’d been a vampire for far too long and craved a cure. Kastus wasn’t interested, but he’d been finding life in Whiterun… difficult, as a vampire. He’d come to his friend for advice, and been told that perhaps he was in want of a change. His suggestion of the Companions was an odd choice, but he certainly seemed to know something that Kastus didn’t and wasn’t keen on sharing.

Amund knew him too well. Now he would _have_ to join simply to be let in on the secret. Of course, there was also the money. Houses in Whiterun didn’t buy themselves, and he was entirely without funding. It hadn’t been a problem before, but now rumour had it that the Jarl needed eight thousand gold before he’d even consider selling the house. Sissel couldn’t live in the inn with him, who never slept.

“You’ve been apart from the world for too long, Kastus. I think you’ll find it more interesting than when you left,” Amund said as he left, with a grin. “Then again, you always were a fool. You hardly noticed that it was interesting long before you abandoned it.”

“Go back to your brooding, Amund,” he returned, not unkindly. “It suits you.” Stepping out into the chill of Skyrim’s evening, he made an immediate line for Jorrvaskr in the distance. The mystery and the money were well worth the trip, although he might have been able to build a life for himself and the girl in any of the empty castles that dotted Skyrim’s landscape.

There was something uniquely appealing, though, about bringing Sissel to a town full of other children and people who wouldn’t raise a hand against her. If that made him a fool, then so be it.

**Author's Note:**

> I just wrote this and am purposely picking an inconvenient time slot to publish it in so I can tell myself that's why no one's reading it (Y). [My writing blog is here](http://nebulaad.tumblr.com) and has other stuff of great interest.


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